


for all the perfect things i doubt

by extasiswings



Category: 9-1-1 (TV)
Genre: And Doesn't Talk About His Issues, And Sometimes That Means Having To Look Past Our Insecurities And Acknowledge That We Are Loved, And They Are Not Bad People, And the Firefam Loves Him, Angst, Buck Is Not Perfect, Canon Compliant, For Not Seeing Him Struggling When He Hides It, In This House We Support Growth and Self-Reflection, Introspection, M/M, Pining, Self-Esteem Issues, Someone Please Drown This Boy In Non-Sexual Intimacy, Trauma Recovery, intimacy issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-02-23 13:00:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23978416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/extasiswings/pseuds/extasiswings
Summary: Evan Buckley is really good in bed.Sometimes he wishes he wasn’t.
Relationships: Evan "Buck" Buckley & Maddie Buckley, Evan "Buck" Buckley/Eddie Diaz (9-1-1 TV), referenced Evan "Buck" Buckley/Abby Clark
Comments: 111
Kudos: 1233





	for all the perfect things i doubt

**Author's Note:**

> In which the author has Feelings about Evan Buckley and his relationship to sex and intimacy. Someone please hug this boy before I lose it.

Evan Buckley is really good in bed.

Sometimes he wishes he wasn’t. 

It’s not that he doesn’t like sex—he does. Maybe too much. Almost definitely too much. But he’s self-aware enough to recognize that most of the time it’s not actually what he wants.

* * *

He loses his virginity at fifteen and it’s a revelation. It doesn’t matter that it’s in a cramped closet at a house party some rich jackass in his class is throwing, it doesn’t matter that his hands are shaking and there are butterflies in his stomach, that he has no idea what he’s doing. Because all he can think about is the fact that he’s being touched—his chest, his arms, his neck, his hair—touched and wanted and it sets him on fire. He nearly cries because he needs it so badly—not the sex, not the orgasm, just…touch.

When he goes home later, to a big, empty house, all stainless steel and marble and cold, open, echoing isolation, he goes to bed thinking about hot kisses and skin on skin contact, and thinks—

_Oh. I can have that._

(It may not be hugs or shoulder squeezes or fingers carding through his hair, but it’s sure as hell better than nothing.)

So…Buck has a lot of sex. He’s safe, he likes to think he’s respectful, he’s not sleazy about it. But he has a lot of sex. The encounters blend together after awhile—

_“What do you need?”_

_“Do you like that?”_

_“Is this good?”_

_Tell me you want me, tell me you need me, tell me I’m good, I want to be good for you, I need to be good, please—_

—but that’s all they are. Encounters. One-offs. 

_“Evan? He’s a great time, but not exactly boyfriend material.”_

_“Oh…I’m not really looking for anything serious.”_

_“Baby…we knew what this was.”_

No one ever stays. And for a few years, Buck thinks if he can just be good enough, if he can blow someone’s mind and get them off well enough, then maybe—maybe someone will. Maybe he can trip and fall into the kind of relationship that he can admit he actually wants late at night, when he’s alone again. One where he can hold someone’s hand instead of (or at least in addition to) fucking them against a wall. One where eventually, in theory, he might be able to talk about himself and ask for what he wants, what he needs, without being afraid the other person will run in the opposite direction. 

He would settle for the handholding though. Or some cuddling.

But, if there’s one thing Buck knows, it’s that he rarely gets what he wants.

* * *

“I’m a sex addict,” Buck says, and he can tell Bobby doesn’t buy it, feels sick to his stomach at the way Bobby is looking at him, with disappointment and disgust. It doesn’t matter how used to it he is—and goodness knows, he’s been looked at that way by plenty of authority figures in his life—it still makes him want to melt into the roof in shame. 

But.

It snaps him out of it—the cycle he’s been stuck in for years. It’s a wake-up call. And when he gets a second chance, well—

He promises himself he isn’t going to waste it.

Buck doesn’t expect Abby. 

_“Firefighter Buckley—”_

_“I saw you on the news and I wanted to ask—are you okay?”_

That very first phone call twists him up inside—it takes everything to hold himself back, to not take the opportunity to just break and bleed and fully unburden himself onto this total stranger. Because it’s the first time in a long time that anyone has asked. That anyone has bothered to notice that he’s drowning. 

Buck falls a little in love with her just for that. Just for asking. Just for wanting to.

It’s easy, with Abby. It’s easy to sit on the other end of a phone line, to be a sponge and listen to everything she has to say—her worries, her frustrations, her hopes. And maybe it isn’t one hundred percent reciprocal, but he doesn’t mind that. It feels good to be wanted. To be needed. To have someone rely on him emotionally instead of just physically. 

Buck likes it. A whole hell of a lot.

Although, the physical is still…well…

(When she hugs him for the first time he _aches_ , touch-starved and wanting and knowing that he shouldn’t push at their fragile boundaries, but sorely tempted anyway because he needs it so badly.

And later, when he calls—he doesn’t mean to start anything, but he thinks about _“You haven’t had sex in a year?”_ and _“It’s hard to feel sexy when your mother is dying in the next room.”_ and it’s so easy to give, such a small thing, and he doesn’t feel bad about it when Abby’s gasping on the other end of the line and he’s reaching under the covers to touch himself.)

He doesn’t mind that either.

Even when they start having real sex, it’s not like before. It’s better. It doesn’t leave him feeling hollow after. There’s no immediately reaching for scattered clothes and running off, there’s no _“That was fun, but don’t call,”_ there’s just…laughter and light and love.

Abby lets him hold her hand.

He definitely loves her for that.

So, of course…she leaves.

* * *

“Who the hell is _that_?”

The thing is. Buck tries. He tries really hard after Abby leaves not to fall back into bad habits. He’s not totally alone anymore after all, even without her—he has the rest of the 118 and they eat together and laugh together and it feels a whole hell of a lot like the family he always wished his would be, so he doesn’t need to go out and fuck a stranger in order to feel something. He’s trying to be better, to have a healthier relationship to sex and intimacy.

And then he sees Eddie Diaz for the first time and is hit with a shock of lust so strong he wants to drop to his knees in the middle of the station. 

Fucking hell. 

It’s easier to get mad. To get aggressive and snippy and put on a front, even if it makes everyone else who knows him raise their eyebrows. Because Eddie isn’t just miles of tanned skin and solid muscle that Buck wants to put his mouth on—although he certainly is that—he’s also…genuinely…good. Even in the gym when Buck knows he’s being a dick, Eddie just _looks_ at him— _“What’s your problem, man?”_ and _“We’re on the same team.”_ —like he’s amused and intrigued and maybe vaguely considering putting Buck over his knee.

(That last one might just be in Buck’s head.)

But by the end of the shift, after they’ve gotten a bomb out of a guy while Eddie stayed cool and competent and focused, when Eddie is grinning easily at Buck, extending a hand and saying, “You can have my back any day,” Buck gives up on that tactic.

“Or, you know, you could have mine,” he replies.

Because clearly, he’s super fucked.

Except, like…Buck can’t sleep with a coworker, right? Even if Eddie is really hot. And doesn’t wear a wedding ring. And has a super adorable kid that Eddie is so soft around that it does weird things to Buck’s heart to see it.

But he can’t sleep with a coworker.

That doesn’t stop him from doing other things though. Walking close enough that their shoulders and arms brush and set his skin alight. Calling Carla to fix Eddie’s childcare issues so Eddie will look at him with soft, desperately grateful eyes that make his stomach flip. Most of the time it isn’t even conscious, but Buck realizes that somehow, for some reason, he’s tripped and fallen into a trap, following Eddie around like a puppy, vibrating constantly with _notice me, notice me, keep me, love me, want me, tell me I’m good, I want to be good for you, I could be so very good—_

“So does this man crush on Eddie mean you’re ready to move on from Abby?” Maddie asks one night, and Buck nearly chokes.

“Eddie’s a friend.”

“Yeah, a friend you want to sleep with. Also known as a crush.”

Buck looks away and rubs at the back of his neck. “It’s not—I don’t even think he’s—”

The thing is, he doesn’t know if he’s ready to move on. Part of him still feels like he’s watching the door half the time waiting for Abby to come back through it, and the rest of him feels like he’s making the same mistakes with Eddie that he did with her—giving and giving and giving, grasping at straws, chasing an intimacy that may only ever be one-sided.

It’s a recipe for disaster, but he can’t seem to stop himself. 

Maddie presses her lips together and he can feel the protective big sister vibes emanating full force. 

“Evan…be careful, okay? I just don’t want to see you get hurt.”

_Too late,_ he thinks.

* * *

Eddie is married.

Eddie is _married_.

And Buck fucks a reporter he barely knows in a bar bathroom.

So…clearly he’s handling that information well. 

He feels a little sick after. Dirty. Used. Which doesn’t even really make sense because it was his decision. He wanted to.

But sex doesn’t feel the way it used to apparently. Or at least not sex with Taylor. Instead of soothing an itch, it makes his skin crawl, and he hates it.

(She’s not even _nice_ , that’s part of it. She’s not nice and she wanted to throw the 118 under the bus for her career and when her nails scratch down his back it hurts and not in a good ways and he just—

She’s not what he wants. She’s not _who_ he wants.)

Yeah. He’s super fucked.

Later that night on Maddie’s couch—because he can’t stay with Chimney _every_ night—Buck shifts when she taps his shoulder, letting her sit down and reposition him so his head is in her lap. He feels like he’s ten years old again, the two of them sitting in their mother’s walk-in closet hoping the back of it will turn into a door to Narnia or something and just…take them away. Take him away from it all. 

“I messed up, Mads,” Buck sighs. Maddie’s fingers start stroking lightly through his hair in the silence.

“You know,” she says finally. “Eventually—and I know it doesn’t feel like it right now—but eventually, someone is going to notice everything you do with that big heart of yours and they’re going to love you right back.”

Well, if that doesn’t sound fake…

“I mean it,” Maddie insists, like she can hear what he’s thinking. “You deserve to be happy, Evan. Really, genuinely happy, not whatever half-assed measure you’ve been settling for.”

“I don’t understand why—” And Buck would never say it in front of anyone else, if they were anywhere else, but in the moment, it feels safe. “—I don’t understand why I’m not good enough. What I’m doing wrong.”

“Nothing.” Maddie’s voice snaps fiercely enough that it makes him freeze, but her fingers are still gentle in his hair. “There is nothing wrong with you, okay? You are enough. You are.”

_I wasn’t enough for our parents_ , Buck wants to say. _I wasn’t enough for you to stay before._

But he doesn’t want to shatter the moment with unpleasant memories that will only make them both upset. So he doesn’t. Instead, he just closes his eyes and allows himself to drift off.

Of course, the universe has a funny sense of humor. And by that, Buck means that sometimes, he would really like for it to fuck right off.

Because he’s still friends with Eddie. He likes being friends with Eddie, he doesn’t want to stop that just because he has deeply unfortunate feelings. That’s his own personal problem.

But being friends means that Eddie talks to him about things. Things like Shannon. Things like how Eddie apparently can’t stop falling into bed with his estranged wife despite the fact that he’s still deeply conflicted about the idea of actually letting her back into his life.

Buck would really like it if the universe would just kill him. It would be kinder.

“We’re figuring things out,” Eddie says, and Buck snorts.

“Are you? Or are you just sleeping together? Because you can’t fuck your way into fixing a relationship—eventually the two of you are going to have to talk about things.”

And yes, Buck is fully aware of the irony that he’s the one saying that.

The universe is definitely laughing at him.

Eddie rubs a hand over his face and sighs.

“Not pulling your punches, huh?”

“Just trying to help.”

Eddie’s jaw ticks as he rolls his head up to the sky.

“I did love her once,” he acknowledges quietly. “I don’t know when I—if it was before she left or if everything—fuck, I just don’t know.”

Buck swallows hard. He is a good person. He is.

“Are you happy? When you’re with her?”

“Having her around would make Christopher happy.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Eddie glances over, his tongue peeking out to wet his lips.

“But that’s what matters,” he replies. “He’s what matters. So…”

_Don’t you get to matter too?_ Buck wants to ask. But he’s not a parent. He’s certainly not Christopher’s parent. So he doesn’t. 

“Well…I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” he says instead.

_Famous last words._

“Thanks, man.”

(Later, Buck texts Ali. _When are you back in LA? Would love to see you again._

He’s trying.)

* * *

It’s strange sometimes, the things you remember. The things your brain latches onto in order to protect itself.

From pain. From fear. 

From the weight of a ladder truck shattering your leg into pieces and pinning you underneath it.

Buck doesn’t remember most of it. He’s not sure he blacked out per se, but he has only a vague recollection of lights, of pressure, of shouts.

But he remembers Eddie. Eddie pulling him out. Eddie taking his weight. Eddie’s hand in his.

He didn’t let go.

He must have—logically, Buck knows that, but he did black out in the ambulance. And the last thing he remembers is squeezing Eddie’s hand.

_Eddie…_

_I’ve got you. I’ve got you, Buck._

Was that real? Did he hallucinate it?

He doesn’t know. 

Ali breaks up with him while he’s lying in a hospital bed and Buck…is exhausted. He isn’t angry. He isn’t even that hurt, just…resigned. Tired.

He wasn’t in love with her. That helps.

Buck drifts after that. Morphine is a hell of a drug after all. It could be hours, or it could be days—it’s probably days. But by the next time he comes out of it enough to really notice what’s happening, it’s to another hand worming its way into his.

“Hey, buddy, be careful, okay? We don’t want to jostle him.”

“But daddy—”

“It’s okay,” Buck manages. His eyes feel like they’re too heavy and full of sand, but he forces them open anyway, his lips quirking faintly. “Hey, Chris.”

Christopher squeezes Buck’s hand with both of his and Buck returns it the best he can.

“He was worried about you,” Eddie says. “Wouldn’t leave me alone until I promised to bring him by. He didn’t believe me when I said you were okay.”

“That true, buddy?” Buck asks Christopher. “I’m fine. Have to stay here for a little while, but the doctors are taking good care of me.”

The other fears lingering in the back of his mind, about his leg, about his recovery, about whether he’s ever going to be able to be a firefighter again—those aren’t relevant here. A kid who just lost his mother doesn’t need to be worried about him.

“You were in an accident though.” Christopher releases Buck’s hand to push his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

“Yeah, I was.”

“Were you scared?”

Buck meets Eddie’s eyes over the top of Christopher’s head. 

“Yeah, buddy,” he admits. “But your dad got me out. And then I wasn’t scared anymore.”

“It was more of a team effort,” Eddie says quietly. “But I’m—we’re all really glad you’re okay. You had us worried there for a minute.”

_Sit down_ , Buck thinks. _Sit down with me and stay. Please stay._

He’s pretty sure he doesn’t actually say it out loud. But it works. Eddie sits on the edge of the hospital bed, wrapping one arm around Christopher to keep him close, but the other—

His other hand slips into Buck’s. Just like before.

“You want to tell Buck what you’ve been working on at school, Chris?”

“Yeah!” 

And Buck tunes his ears to Christopher’s comforting, excited chatter, while the rest of him zeroes in on the warmth of Eddie’s hand.

For the first time since the accident, he feels safe. He feels normal. He feels like everything is going to be okay.

* * *

When Buck backslides…he falls hard.

Before it was easier—Eddie was with Shannon, Buck was with Ali—he was moving forward and moving on and doing better.

But Shannon dies and Buck gets crushed by a ladder truck and Ali leaves and Eddie—

Eddie is there. For months. Months of painful, agonizing physical therapy that leaves Buck feeling helpless. Hopeless. He’s there alone and with Christopher at different times, making sure Buck gets out of bed, making sure he does his exercises, helping him lift and get his stamina back so he can re-qualify to be a firefighter again.

Eddie is there. Without being asked. Even when Buck is in pain and picking a fight.

He’s not the only one—Maddie is there too, and the rest of the 118 more sporadically, but Maddie is his sister. 

Buck doesn’t understand why Eddie keeps showing up—fuck, he loves him a little more for it every time though. 

He asks once. Well…lashes out, really, but it gets the point across.

“I don’t need your help,” he snaps—he’s covered in sweat, his muscles are screaming at him, and his knees have just given out after an extra round of exercise that Eddie told him not to do—and Eddie pauses in the middle of reaching for him. 

“Okay,” Eddie says, raising his hands and stepping back. “I get it. Help yourself.”

He leans back against the wall and crosses his arms over his chest, just waiting and watching as Buck reaches for the railings set up for his physical therapy. It takes longer than Buck would like to pull himself up—his bad leg spasms at even the slightest pressure, and he bites his tongue hard enough to nearly bleed, but he does manage eventually.

He doesn’t feel like he’s proved a point though. He just feels tired.

Eddie pushes off the wall and crosses back to him.

“You gonna let me help you to the couch, tough guy, or can you do that yourself too?” 

“Fuck you,” Buck replies, but there’s no heat to it, and he leans hard into Eddie’s shoulder even as he says it.

“Yeah, I know,” Eddie says, getting Buck across the empty space to the couch and lowering him down, elevating his bad leg with the coffee table. “You want ice?” 

_I want to not feel fucking useless_ , Buck thinks. But.

“Yes,” he sighs, and closes his eyes when Eddie’s warmth disappears.

“You don’t have to do this, you know,” Buck calls, listening to the familiar sounds of the freezer door opening and closing. “I don’t even want to be around me right now, so…”

Eddie snorts and Buck jumps at the shock of cold when an ice pack presses against his leg.

“What, you think I’m going to run off because you got a little snippy?” Eddie asks. “Please. I remember when I was doing my PT, I—”

Buck’s eyes snap open as Eddie cuts himself off. There’s a pause—then Eddie clears his throat and repositions the ice pack so it covers a wider area. 

“I get it, is all,” he says when he continues. “And you’re right—I don’t have to do this. But I want to. So if you need to yell or swear or cry or whatever—that’s fine. I can take it. You’re not getting rid of me that easy.”

Buck wants to ask about Eddie’s slip of the tongue, about the things he keeps so close to the chest that he won’t even talk about them. But, he doesn’t want to push, he doesn’t want to pry, so he doesn’t. 

“Thank you,” Buck says instead, shifting enough that his shoulder presses firmly against Eddie’s. “For being here.”

_Thank you for staying._

“Of course.” Eddie’s phone buzzes in his pocket and he smiles as he checks it before glancing over at Buck.

“How do you feel about pizza with Christopher tonight?” He asks. “Up for it?”

Buck groans, but he’s grinning as meets Eddie’s gaze.

“I think I could find a second wind, yeah.” 

The point is, Eddie is always there. And Christopher is there. And Buck feels like…family. Like he’s meant to be there, with the two of them.

(Even after the tsunami, even after Buck loses Christopher and feels like he’s lost the world, when he expects Eddie to run the other direction and take Chris with him—Eddie doesn’t leave. He doubles down.

_“You saved him. That’s how he remembers it.”_

_“There is no one in the world I trust with my son more than you.”_

And Buck loves, he loves, he loves him.)

So of course, it blows up in his face.

* * *

“You’re exhausting,” Eddie says, and that hits right at the heart of Buck’s insecurities. But then—

“Do you even know how much Christopher misses you?”

—and it’s like a bucket of ice water has just been dumped over Buck’s head. 

Because he doesn’t know. Because he never even thought, never even considered—

_You left him_ , his mind whispers, and he wants to throw up.

Months of scenes flash before his eyes—Eddie and Christopher, in his loft, in their place, in his life—Christopher, who lost his mother and didn’t need another adult to walk out of his life with no warning—

Abruptly, Buck realizes that for all that he was afraid of being replaced, of being left—Eddie didn’t leave, Christopher didn’t leave, hell, even the rest of the 118 didn’t actually leave him, it was just—

He was the one. The one who left. And he didn’t explain or ask for help or even give anyone but Bobby a heads up.

He just left.

“I’m sorry,” Buck chokes out. He wants to fix it, he wants to talk, he wants to make up for all of it at once—but everyone gets pulled away before he can get there.

That night, he decides, fuck it, fuck the lawsuit and the stupid rules his lawyer set, and he texts Eddie.

_Can we talk?_

For the first time Buck can remember, Eddie doesn’t answer.

Buck gets his job back.

It doesn’t feel like a victory.

“I walked out on a kid, Maddie,” Buck says two nights before his first day back, stretched out across her couch with his hands covering his face. “A _kid_ , and I didn’t even say goodbye, I just disappeared. Who does that? I—”

“Hey. Breathe,” Maddie replies, reaching over the top of the couch to pull his hands away. 

“I left,” he repeats, feeling like he could drown in the guilt of it all, and Maddie sighs.

“Yeah,” she acknowledges. “You did. But you’re not a bad person, Evan. You’ll go back and you’ll fix it.”

“What if I can’t?” That’s the part that terrifies him the most. “Eddie won’t even talk to me, and I can’t blame him—what if he never forgives me? What if he never lets me see Christopher again? I can’t—”

There’s a pressure on his chest, his lungs—Buck knows he’s spiraling, but he can’t stop it, can’t think—it’s worse than when he walked into the station to see Firefighter Bosko in his place. 

_My fault, my fault, my fault._

“Look at me.” Maddie kneels down next to the couch, one hand on his face. Buck swallows hard and turns his head to look at her. 

“It’ll be okay,” she says firmly. “You’ll go to work, you’ll apologize, you’ll figure it out. You can’t focus on the worst case scenario right now. Just…give Eddie time. He knows you didn’t mean it.”

_“You’re not getting rid of me that easy.”_

Buck exhales shakily. “You think so?”

“I do.”

He clings to that.

(“I forgive you,” Eddie says at the end of their shift, and Buck breathes again.

When Christopher hugs him the next night, Buck blinks back tears and thanks whatever god is listening that he dodged a bullet.)

* * *

After the accident, Buck doesn’t think about sex for a long time. 

At the beginning, between the cast and all the drugs running through his system, there wasn’t any point in even thinking about it—neither hell nor high water was going to get him hard under those conditions. Through his recovery, his energy was spent on other things. He only had so much to begin with and he wasn’t going to waste it on something as frivolous as getting himself off. And with Eddie, he was getting other things—support, trust, casual platonic intimacy. 

After the lawsuit? 

It’s like his body resets and jumps into overdrive.

Eddie forgives him, lets him back in, trusts him again, and Buck—

Buck wants him.

(It’s easy to focus on that. Because Buck knows that’s something he could do and do well. The other stuff—he messed up, with that. He doesn’t mess up with sex.) 

Of course…it’s not like Eddie wants him back. Because Eddie is straight.

Except…sometimes it doesn’t seem like he is.

“You wanna go for the title?” Buck asks, and he’s teasing Eddie about his fight club, but he’s also two beers in and bold enough to step in, body open, hand on his belt.

And Eddie looks at him. Drags his gaze over Buck with dark eyes and enough intention that Buck shivers. 

It would be easy. So easy for Eddie to close the distance, to pin Buck against the counter. If he wants control, Buck’s more than willing to give it to him, to let Eddie take whatever he needs.

_Do it_ , Buck thinks. _Take._

But then Eddie looks away and takes a long swallow of his beer and the moment breaks.

They spend the rest of the night playing video games with Christopher and when Buck gets home he nearly passes out in the shower imagining what would have happened if Eddie had taken him up on what he was so clearly offering. 

Buck wants.

But he also knows that’s his own problem. He can make up for what he’s done in other ways—giving Christopher a Christmas with his dad, making him a skateboard, proving to both Eddie and Christopher that he isn’t leaving again—he doesn’t need to sleep with Eddie for that.

He can be their family without that.

(Not that it stops him from thinking about it.)

And then, Eddie almost dies, and Buck—

He breaks a little.

“You don’t have to stay,” Eddie says quietly, only half-awake in his hospital bed. Hell of a reverse, Buck thinks.

Buck sits at the edge of the bed, holding Eddie’s hand in both of his, and shakes his head.

“You’re not getting rid of me that easy,” he replies, the choice of words deliberate. 

“You look like hell.”

“You cut your fucking line and then got trapped under forty feet of mud.” _Yeah, I look like hell._

Eddie squeezes his hand. “I came back.”

“Barely.”

_You can’t do that_ , Buck thinks. _You can’t leave like that._

He’s used to being left in other ways. He’s used to not being good enough, he’s used to people walking away.

Death is different.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Eddie says. “If something had happened, it wouldn’t have been—”

“You cut your line,” Buck repeats. He’s exhausted enough, physically and emotionally, that he doesn’t think he’s hiding anything. But for once the last thing he’s thinking about is whether Eddie can tell how he feels.

There’s a long pause, and then—

“I’m sorry.”

They don’t say anything else.

* * *

Buck doesn’t expect to see Eddie after Red dies. He spent the night at Maddie’s, didn’t say a word to anyone else—he knows his insecurities are his problem, he knows, logically, that he has more in his life than Red, but logic doesn’t always quiet the voices in his head saying he’s going to be alone, that everyone is going to leave, that no one is ever really going to want him.

Eddie shows up the next morning.

“I was watching you,” Eddie says when Buck opens the door. “When you were wheeling Red to the truck, I was watching you. And the look on your face made me think—”

“Eddie—”

“You’re not him,” Eddie finishes. “You’re not alone. You have people. Me. Christopher—”

“I don’t though. Have you.” It slips out before Buck can stop it, because he’s tired and just wants to get it out in the open.

Eddie’s brow furrows as he steps inside.

“What are you talking about?”

“I don’t have you…the way I want you,” Buck admits. His stomach twists and his pulse races, but he knows it’s right, it’s necessary, because he can’t keep doing this, he can’t keep loving this man the way he does if it’s never going to happen.

He just hopes they can survive it. 

“And what way is that?” 

Buck bites his lip and looks away. “Eddie…”

Eddie sets his hand in the middle of Buck’s chest and gently pushes until Buck’s back hits the wall. Buck opens his mouth, searching for the words to explain—

—and Eddie kisses him.

“Like that?” Eddie asks when he pulls back. “Because you can. Have that.”

It’s overwhelming—all of the emotions of the past few days, the past month really, seem to crash into him at once, and Buck chokes back a sob as he grabs the front of Eddie’s shirt and kisses him again. And again. And again. Pouring two years worth of longing into every one.

_I love you, I love you, I love you._

When Buck gets his hands under Eddie’s shirt, Eddie pulls back, laughing softly.

“Easy,” he says. “Easy. We’ve got time. I’m not going anywhere.”

_I’m not going anywhere._

Buck flushes. 

“You want to go slow?” He asks.

“Well...” Eddie’s slow grin as his eyes drag over Buck’s body is full of possibility. “Maybe not _that_ slow…but I was thinking we could get lunch.”

“Like a date?”

“Yeah. Like a date.”

Buck kisses him again.

“Okay.”

Later, they do fall into bed. 

Eddie stays.

And nothing hurts.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "I'll Be Good" by Jaymes Young.


End file.
